


Washing Up

by MezzaMorta



Series: Quartet [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anthea is a BAMF, Bickering, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Casual sexism will be punished, Come play, Committed Relationship, Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Domestic Discipline, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Felching, Figging, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Forced knicker wearing, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Hand Jobs, John is a Horndog, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mycroft IS the British Government, Naughty Sherlock, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Sarcasm, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest, Snowballing, Spanking, Top Greg Lestrade, Voyeurism, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-19 00:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14225586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: Mycroft and John cooked. Knackered Greg brought the booze. It's Sherlock's turn to do the washing up. What are the chances of that going well?Domesticity is tough in a quartet fuckfest with D/S dynamics, incestuous siblings, and a spoiled man-child desperate for attention. The last resort? A text to Anthea, the baddest MF of all. Filth ensues.





	1. After dinner hints

**Author's Note:**

> It may cross your mind that this is passive-aggressively based on personal experience with rotten washer uppers. I swear it isn't! I've just used it as an excuse to write imaginary bickering and eventual kinky smut. Will get filthier as it progresses, hopefully in inverse proportion to the dishes.

“Oh, Myc, that was incredible,” said Greg Lestrade, pushing his plate away with a satisfied sigh. 

Mycroft smiled self-effacingly, obviously thrilled with the praise from his man. Well, one of his men.

“Thank you, Gregory. I'm delighted you enjoyed it. Do you want any more?”

“I wish I could but I'm totally stuffed. Thank you so much, love.” He leaned across the table to give Mycroft an appreciative snog. “Mm.” He licked his lips. “Tasty and talented. How did we get so lucky, eh?”

Mycroft blinked up at his face, practically glowing. “You’re no slouch yourself, Gregory.”

“Big rewards for you later. Like, mega…,” he grinned lasciviously. He sat back down again, groaning slightly and loosening his belt. “But quite a bit later. When I can actually move. I mean, I know you're a Renaissance man and all, love, but where did you learn to cook like that?”

Mycroft chuckled warmly. “One picks these things up, my dear.”

A sarcastic voice interrupted what was fast threatening to become a meeting of the Mycroft Holmes Appreciation Society.

“Oh, yes, Greg, one  _does_ when one has the best chefs in the world on speed-dial and one is  _so_ fond of eating...”

“Oi, you, behave”, said Greg, giving Sherlock a warning look, tempered by a conspiratorial smile.

Mycroft, well used to this brother’s inability to be upstaged by anyone, especially himself, merely continued as though he hadn’t spoken.

“Alas, I can't take full credit. I was ably assisted by our good doctor here. Indispensable in the kitchen, as in so many things.”

Mycroft gazed at John with great affection. Their bond had considerably strengthened over the past few months, and their mutual love of cooking and caretaking had brought them closer together beyond their obvious physical chemistry. Greg only half-joked that John would do anything for a man who could make a decent custard tart, and Mycroft would be an indecent tart for any man who liked custard.

John shook his head and grinned good-naturedly, also intent on ignoring their youngest, lippiest lover and dining companion. He reached out next to him and briefly petted Mycroft’s cheek, flirtatiously.

“Nope,  _commis_ duties only. Myc did the actual cheffing - he's brilliant. I did lots of peeling and chopping. And the gravy.”  

“Beautifully done too. You're a star, John,” said Mycroft with great gallantry, taking John’s fingers in his own and kissing them sweetly. 

“Nah,” John replied modestly, “just a workhorse squaddie. If there's one thing the RMC teaches you, it's how to peel a spud.”

Greg sipped at his glass of wine, and leaned back in his chair contentedly. “Right, lads, washing up duties.”

“What?” said Sherlock, suspiciously.

Greg shrugged. “Dishwasher’s up the Swanee. Back to basics. Sponges and elbow grease. Cooks are exempt.” 

“Yep. Sherlock, you're up,” said John, casually.

The temperature of the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

“I beg your pardon?” came the disbelieving reply.

John looked incredulously at Sherlock, who was reclining back in his seat, scowling like a disgruntled Roman Emperor.

“Er, you haven't lifted a finger all day, you lazy git. You're doing the washing up. Obviously.”

Sherlock’s open-mouthed glare of sheer outrage would have quelled lesser men. Fortunately, none of them sat round the large table in Greg’s South London semi-detached were lesser men, and all presented a united front of indifference.

“I am _not_ washing up!” exclaimed the consulting detective masquerading as a six-year-old.

John sat forward with serious intent. “Sherlock - your brother cooked an amazing dinner, all three courses of it plus actual bread he baked from scratch. I slaved over a million and twelve different vegetables. Greg's worked a fifty-hour week, bought all the booze,  _and_  set the table. _You_ are washing up, mate. Them's the rules.” He shrugged matter-of-factly.

“I don't wash up,” said Sherlock, primly. 

“Yeah, we've noticed. You're about to add the experience to your data bank,” said Greg, a firmer tone entering his voice.

“Not a chance, Lestrade. I'll be in the attic, adding sulphuric acid to my...”

‘Oh, _Lestrade_ is it _?’_ thought Greg, but said: “You won't. You will be doing the washing up, like you've been asked to.” 

Sherlock shook his head with great certainty. “I really won't though. Anyway, you didn't ask me, did you? You've given it to me as a  _job,_ " he scoffed in disgust. "You  _expect_ me to do it.”

“Oh, here we go…,” groaned John, under his breath. Greg redoubled his efforts.

“Sherlock, you were cooked for - as usual, I might add - so you clean up after, to show appreciation.” 

“Was my eating it not appreciation enough?” 

Greg gritted his teeth in an effort to retain some semblance of patience. “No. That's basic politeness. A stretch for you, I know, but still not a big enough gesture. Do it as a thank you to John and your brother, yeah?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I sat still for over an hour, didn't I?” 

“That's called being waited on. You literally sat on your arse while we put food in front of you.”

Greg caught John trying to repress a giggle and side-eyed him.

Sherlock huffed, his tone becoming more hopelessly recalcitrant with every word.

“I'll order some flowers if you're all so desperate for gratitude.”

Greg placed his glass down on the table with slightly too much force and his voice rose in irritation.

“Sherlock, it is your  _turn_ to do the sodding washing up. That's how this works.” 

“Ugh, I didn't ask to be cooked for! It's not me that's obsessed with consuming vast quantities of food _en masse_.”

Greg bristled, staring disbelievingly at his opponent. At the same time, John caught Mycroft’s eye from across the table, and saw that the elder Holmes was discomfited, his eyes roaming the room as he attempted to remove himself from the conflict. Poor Mycroft. All he’d wanted was a quiet, convivial night in, and now he was desperately trying to stay out of what was fast becoming a row. Mycroft did not do rows, and he tried not to get involved when Sherlock was cheeking off Gregory. ‘Let the silly boy keep digging’ seemed to be his approach. John couldn’t blame him for that.

Appalled to see their formerly lovely evening slipping down the drain, John was unable to stop himself chiming in.

“Right, so next time we actually all have time for a Friday dinner together, we'll just leave you to your tea and toast, shall we? Chances of us getting through that in peace are low at best...”

“Fine with me. I don't care. I've got more important things to do,” came Sherlock’s haughty reply.

John’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Great, so you really don't want to spend any nice social time with your partners at all? Cheers for that, dickhead. Thanks a bunch,” he said, playing up his hurt feelings. He knew Sherlock didn’t mean the crap he spouted most of the time, but it still rubbed him up the wrong way. 

Sherlock seemed to realise he’d gone a little over the line and pulled back. “Whatever. Don't say 'partners', John, it makes us sound like a big gay Mills and Boon novel.”

“Er, we are a big gay Mills and Boon novel. A very niche and perverted one that never made it to print. In case you hadn't noticed. All right then, not partners - boyfriends, lovers, foursome fuck-buddies, a common law shag-team...” 

“'Consensual Four Man Orgy' might cover it...,” speculated Greg, momentarily distracted from his point. "Great porn film title...," he mused.

“Quartet Fuckfest?” offered John.

"Fantastic Goth band!" laughed Greg. 

“All of the above, my dears. ‘Featuring Handsome Incestuous Siblings' in the subtitles, don't forget,” said Mycroft, seizing the opportunity to bring the conversation round to more pleasurable subjects and flatter Sherlock into playing nice. 

“Sorry, Myc, of course. It actually isn't _that_ easy to forget...,” said Greg, suggestively.

“You love it, you beasts,” teased Mycroft, with a rarely-seen flirty wink.

John propped his elbows on the table and sighed a dirty sigh. “Oh yeah...”

“Yep.” Greg gazed off into space, a thousand salacious memories crossing his mind at once. 

That time when Sherlock and Mycroft… Or when Mycroft and John and Sherlock… And when he and Mycroft, and Sherlock and John had… Over a year of unconventional togetherness, and none of them were fed up of the intriguing convolutions presented by their various combined couplings, and triplings, and…was it quadlings?

The lustful reverie did not last long.

“Oh God, please, I'm not sitting through the Collective Noun conversation again. I don’t do labels,” snapped Sherlock, annoyed at having his thunder stolen. Even by erotic thoughts inspired by his own fraternal frolickings.

“Fine,” retorted Greg, waving him away with an imperious hand. “Do you know where that conversation is _not_ happening? In the kitchen. Don't use all the Fairy Liquid at once.”

“What on earth is Fairy Liquid? Gay soap? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know and have no intention of ever finding out.”

“Come on, soldier, off you go. Non-negotiable,” said John, curtly, flicking his head towards the kitchen while Greg smouldered next to him.

Seeing that his ‘princely superiority’ strategy was doing no good, Sherlock tried a different one – ‘princely seduction’. “Well, personally, I prefer the bedroom to the kitchen...” he purred, hoping to distract with his very distracting come-hither eyes. He licked his lips for extra insurance.

Greg was having none of it. “You won't be getting any action in there any time soon if you don't do that washing up. You'll be getting some over-my-knee action. And not the fun kind.”

Sherlock sort of flushed and shuddered at the same time in spite of himself. He tried to regain the upper hand.

“I'll let you all fuck me over the breakfast bar instead, how's that?”

“So very generous...,” murmured Mycroft, dripping with sarcasm.

John barked a laugh. “You'll be lucky. No-one wants to fuck an entitled non-washer-upper.” 

Sherlock made a dismissive noise and slid out of his chair, preparing to make a dash for the attic. Greg pointed at him accusingly and gestured at him to sit back down if he knew what was good for him.

“Oi, you, unless you're slinking off to fill the sink with hot, soapy water, you don't have permission to leave the table.”

“Why?! I'm  _bored,_ Greg!” whined Sherlock, all attempts at maintaining his dignity gone. “And I'm not filling anything with hot, soapy water, unless it's a bath. For me. Alone. With Duckward and the latest Coroner's Weekly.” He sniffed and folded his arms in high dudgeon.

Greg fixed him with a stern glare. “I'll fill you with hot, soapy water if you don't stop back-chatting me, my lad.”

Mycroft perked up. “That might do the trick, actually Gregory. Based on past experience, he’s a lot more compliant after a good ene...”

“Shut up, Mycroft! Nobody asked you.”

“Who calls their rubber duck Duckward?” shot back the elder Holmes, unable to restrain himself. “Who even _has_ a rubber duck?!”

“You leave him out of this!” shouted the younger.

Greg sharply raised a hand and was pleased when it rendered both mouthy Holmes brothers silent. He softened his approach, turning his best puppy eyes on Sherlock in the forlorn hope of melting him into good behaviour.

“Come on, babe, just get it done. Please. It would mean a lot to me. And it's only fair,” he wheedled. 

“Hmm, but life isn't fair, is it? Surely you know that by now, Detective Inspector,” said Sherlock, resentful that he didn’t seem to be getting his own way for some unfathomable reason.

Greg rolled his eyes to the heavens and muttered, “I am getting seriously towards the end of my rope here...”

John took a swig of wine and exhaled despairingly. “Oh, for God's sake, Greg, is it even worth it?”

“John, I don't want a scene, but he's bloody well going to do it, and that's that,” replied Greg, stubbornly. 

“All I'm saying is, it's been a nice evening, and I'd rather we didn't have a fight over it.”

John felt slightly guilty for attempting to mediate. Sherlock really should do the bloody washing up, but God only knew what kind of state the house would be in by the time they got around to making it happen.

Greg folded his arms and glowered. “I'm not going to fight anyone, but he's not getting off that lightly. He's being a total brat and he's wandering very close to the cliff-edge of my extreme displeasure.”

Sherlock snorted. “Nice metaphor. You've been spending too much time with Mycroft...”

John slapped a hand down on the table.

“Stop digging, you idiot. If you want to make him do it, Greg, just smack his arse and make him. I’ve had enough of this.”

Sherlock blanched and cast a comic look of betrayal at John. Greg’s voice rose in frustration.

“I don't  _want_ to make him, not tonight. I smack his arse every other bloody day - much good it does - and I'm a bit bloody sick of throwing my weight around, actually. I've had a very long, very horrible week at the Yard. I  _want_ to chill out on the sofa with my glass of wine, I want a massive necking session with anyone who'll have me in front of a crap horror film, and I want  _him_ to do the washing up voluntarily because it's a nice thing to do for other people. You know, people he claims to love and everything.” 

This little outburst rather surprised them all. Greg was hardly one to complain or to let pressure get to him. They all relied on him to hold it together, but it seemed he was not in the mood to fully exert his usual authority over the subbier elements of this complex and loving four-way bonkathon they called a family. It unnerved everyone.

“Hello, I'm Sherlock, I'm still in the room,” mumbled a very sullen detective, who loathed being talked about in the third person unless it was complimentary.

“Yeah, we noticed,” said John, tersely. 

Sherlock looked down at the table, lower lip pushed forth in an impressive pout. “Do love you. Just don't love washing up. Conflating the two is irrational.”

Greg breathed deeply and ran his hands through his hair, spiking it up so he resembled a grumpy but kindly owl. “Look, sweetheart, I  _really_ don't want to be in a bad mood tonight. I’ve got a bloody headache. Now get over there and put the marigolds on like a good boy, please?” 

Sherlock seemed to waver for a moment, then caught himself in time. “Shan't.”

“I’ll do it, Gregory, I don’t mind.” Mycroft began to get up, but thought better of it at the displeased ‘don’t you dare’ look Greg threw his way. Sherlock hissed “Suck up!” at his brother, and Greg’s fury ratcheted up another notch.

“No, Myc, you’ve done your bit. He’ll do it. Because if one of _us_ has to do it, his experiment is going down the sink as well.”

“Fine! If you want to dissolve the sink! Oh, wait, in that case…,” he looked slyly up through his lashes. Seeing the unimpressed looks of all three of his lovers, he rolled his eyes and waved a regal hand. “Oh, just let Mycroft do it, he loves tedious domestic chores. He's made for them.” 

“Jesus Christ,” said John to no-one in particular.

“Stop being horrible to Mycroft, I mean it, Sherlock!” Greg was properly irate now.

Sherlock just smirked. “Well, he looks much more convincing in an apron than me.”

“Much obliged to you, I’m sure,” said Mycroft, aridly.

“Oh, you're really asking for it tonight, aren't you?” 

“Not asking for anything, Lestrade," retorted Sherlock, placing as much derisive emphasis on the surname as he felt he could get away with. "I'm just not lowering myself to the level of a servant for your amusement.”

“Oh, my God, you bloody snob!” exclaimed John, genuinely aghast.

Sherlock barely stopped to draw breath.

“You shouldn’t have even made dinner knowing the dishwasher's buggered, it’s irresponsible! It’s all your faults – you two, Nigella Lawson and Jamie Oliver - for using every single utensil in the entire universe, and you, Greg, for only buying cheap, rubbish appliances!”

"How do you know who Nigella and Jamie are, and you still can't tell me the name of the Prime Minister?!" howled John.

"Pfft, Mycroft has enough of those cookbooks to sink the Titanic. They're basically pornography to him. And no one in Britain gives a shit about who the Prime Minister is," replied Sherlock, reasonably. "Why didn’t we go to Mycroft’s anyway? I guarantee his dishwasher's working. He's got machines for everything. I've seen the contents of his 'special drawer'...”

Mycroft manfully decided that placid detachment would be infinitely more annoying to his irksome pest of a brother than rising to his jibes. “Perhaps Gregory wanted a nice evening in his own house for a change, little brother. We’re always at mine or Baker Street…”

“Oh, stop being so bloody grown up, you’re not fooling anyone, Mycroft!”

Greg thumped his fist on the table and rose to his feet. “Sherlock, seriously, enough! Get your arse in the kitchen and do your share of the fucking housework!” he thundered.

Mycroft flinched. John drank. Sherlock rallied.

“I don't  _fucking_ want to! It's a waste of my time and it’s beneath me!”

Greg seemed too incandescent to speak. John came to his aid.

“It’s beneath everyone in the world, Sherlock, it’s just a dull job that needs doing! It won’t kill you, and you are going to do it without me or Greg having to tie you to the sink!”

Sherlock’s ears went pink as he contemplated that image. He stood up, facing off against Greg, well on his way to a full-blown tantrum, eyes flashing wildly.

“But there’s tonnes of it! It’s completely boring and completely pointless! One of you will do it eventually anyway. I can live with it growing things and attracting vermin. I’ll use it as a testing ground for new species of fungi and I’ll harvest the rats for science. I could literally go on _not_ doing it _forever!”_ he roared with a smug, self-satisfied flourish.

“You selfish little…”

“Oh, Lock, really!”

“No! Never! Don’t have to do the stupid-boring-fucking washing up! I'm not a bloody  _woman!”_

Three rather loud gasps filled the room and a shocked, tense silence fell. It was quietly broken by John.

“Ohh...my God… He really just said that.” 

“Sherlock Holmes...,” began Greg, with an air of menacing calm.

“What?” said Sherlock, confused at the astonished looks he was getting on all sides.

“I can't believe he's just said that,” continued John, shaking his head, stunned.

Mycroft tilted his head to one side and scrutinised his brother, disapprovingly. “That's insensitively chauvinistic even for you, brother mine.”

Sherlock frowned. “What are you talking about?” 

“You're not actually pretending to be puzzled, are you, Sherlock?” said Greg, sceptically. 

“I don't... What's wrong...?”

“I double dare you to say it to Mrs H and find out. Seriously, I'll call her for you,” said John, cheerfully.

“Do you not know how offensive that is, you great prat?” continued Greg, his face contorted with incredulity.

Sherlock shifted in his chair defensively, looking around the table in consternation. “I don't know, I was just annoyed. Isn't that a thing people say? It's a joke, isn't it?” 

John shook his head. “Not good, mate.”

“Not?”

“Nope. And can I just say, not something I want repeating around my daughter at any time. Actually, not something I want repeating around me. Because, like, the last 40 years have actually happened to some of us.”

“Well, there you go, I'm only 38.”

Greg leaned forwards, as if in the middle of an interrogation down at the Yard. “Hang on,  _who_ have you heard saying that?” 

“People. Men. What you'd call 'blokes', Greg. One of your goons at the station, actually,” replied Sherlock, nonchalantly. 

“One of mine? Yeah, well, that doesn't surprise me. Unreconstructed apes some of them. Give me a name and I'll have Sal kick their arse into a mountain of paperwork. Or send them to Hackney to raid a hipster rave in some grotty public lav on August Bank Holiday.”

Sherlock tutted. “As if I know their names. And they all look the same to me. Gormless idiots.”

Mycroft raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Yet it's these gormless idiots whose unsavoury sexism you choose to parrot at the dinner table?” 

Sherlock bridled once again. “Oh, be quiet, Mycroft, nobody cares what you think!”

Rather than retaliate in kind, Mycroft seemed to be contemplating something. “Indeed... But I wonder if I could find  _someone_ who does...? Hmm. Yes, there's an idea…”

He brought out his phone. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in wariness.

“What? Why are you texting? Who are you texting?”

“No-one at all, brother mine.”

“Oh, no, Mycroft!” A look of cold horror fixed itself on Sherlock’s refined features.

“Too late for 'oh no, Mycroft', I'm afraid.” 

Sherlock shook his head in mild panic. “It's really not necessary!”

Mycroft regarded his brother with lofty disapprobation. “I disagree. I think it is essential. You've been intolerably rude all evening - beastly to me, exhausting to John, and, frankly, I'm going to spare poor Gregory the trouble of dealing with you.”

John flicked his gaze from Mycroft to Sherlock, trying to get a handle on this cryptic conversation. “Err… Who are you texting, Myc? Who is he texting?”

Sherlock ignored the question and began pleading, earnestly leaning forward to make his case more compelling.

“Honestly, Mycie, I'm really sorry. Don't text her, she's pure evil!”

Greg and John exchanged amazed looks as Mycroft continued.

“Isn't she just, little brother? Too late for begging.”

“Oh, for God's sake, WHO?” exclaimed John.

“Myc, darl, what's happening?” asked Greg, as calmly as he could.

“Gregory, I am, as a measure of last resort, texting Anthea,” he said, darkly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discipline, sex, and (shock-horror) sentiment to come.


	2. Dear Anthea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea offers some helpful (evil) advice.

“Anthea?!” exclaimed Greg and John simultaneously.

“Satan in a pencil skirt!” moaned Sherlock, utterly dismayed. “I'm being good now, I promise. Look. I'm stacking bowls, with my actual hands.”

“Will someone please explain what Anthea has to do with anything?” asked John, desperate to learn more.

Mycroft smirked, settled back in his chair, steepled his fingertips - still awkwardly holding his phone - and prepared to deliver the explanation. John momentarily thought this must be what it felt like to be a civil servant at one of his security briefings. He suppressed a shudder.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Anthea, as well as being one of the miniscule number of people I genuinely trust at home or abroad, has an ingenious brain when it comes to thinking up distressingly creative punishments for my baby brother. Long before our closer acquaintance, gentlemen, she often proved very enthusiastic when given the opportunity to contribute to his discipline - at a safe and respectful distance of course. She has been performing particularly well in the high-stakes game of international counter-espionage recently - I think it might be appropriate to offer her a little bonus.” 

“Do shut up, Mycroft!” wailed Sherlock. 

“Do carry on, Mycroft," contradicted John.

Greg leaned forward with curiosity, feigning a coolness he did not feel. “What were you saying to her?”

Mycroft consulted his phone again. “’Agent A - Baby Brother thinks washing up only for women. Won't lower himself to it. Being a chronic pain. All of us fed up. Suggestions for correction, please. M.'”

John nodded contemplatively. “Sounds good to me.” 

“Accurate. Send it.” 

“Greg! John! Mycroft, don't you...”

“Done.”

“Argh!” 

Greg smiled pleasantly. “Well, well, isn't this a turn up, Johnnyboy?” He beckoned to John, who got up and came over to straddle his lap, radiating comfortable intimacy. He linked his hands behind Greg's neck, and Greg ran his hands under John's jumper, rubbing his taught stomach and chest with easy, languid strokes. John arched into the touch when his nipples were tweaked playfully, and then relaxed against Greg's sturdy body.

“Fascinating bit of new evidence, love, yeah.” John grinned at his captor and raked his fingertips through the rumpled, spiky hair, setting it to rights again. They exchanged provocative little looks and teasing kisses whilst Mycroft looked on warmly and Sherlock gave them his best Paddington stare from across the table.

Soon their hands were all over each other and they were on the verge of getting carried away, when Mycroft’s phone abruptly emitted a happy little ping. All four men simultaneously turned their heads and stared at it in various attitudes of interest, triumph, anticipation and despair.

“Oh, a reply already. Always so keen, my Anthea. Reads as follows: 'Oh dear, how disappointing. Sending a courier with essentials. Suggestions to follow. Good luck. Love to G and J.'”

Sherlock pointed frantically at the phone, as if it were solely responsible for the vile message. “See? She's totally got it in for me!” His voice was rapidly verging on hysterical.

Mycroft grunted unsympathetically. “I really don't blame her, the poor creature. Who do you think has to fill in all the blue forms and rewrite the codes when you crack one of our databases? Who has to make excuses to ambassadors and apparatchiks when you burst in unannounced for an office quickie? Who has to arrange all the clean-up operations when you set off the tear-gas _every single time_ you try to open my work umbrella? Those are repetitive, boring tasks, definitely beneath her, but she does them anyway because someone has to. You could take a lesson from Anthea, young man. Oh, wait, you're going to..."

Sherlock sulked. “She's a spoilsport and I hate her.”

“How dare you, you ill-behaved little nuisance? Anthea is literally a national treasure,” said Mycroft, loyally.  

 _“I'M_ a national treasure!” 

“You're a national menace!”

“Boys, please,” intervened Greg, still trying to stave off his nascent migraine. 

The merry ping that indicated certain doom for Sherlock went off once again and he jolted instinctively. He opened his mouth to protest but was cut off by Mycroft, who now couldn't recall when he'd had a more enjoyable evening.

“Ah, ask not for whom the phone pings, Sherlock. It pings for thee,” he quipped, inordinately pleased with himself.

John’s mouth quirked at the edges. “Another message from the Evil One?”

Mycroft scrutinised his phone, and gave a sharky smile. “Ah. Yes. A few choice words of advice. See?” He handed it to John, who passed it to Greg, averting the screen from Sherlock’s eyeline.

“See what? What?!” Sherlock attempted to get up but found himself hobbled by Greg’s feet tangled up with his own. He tried again and got a quick kick in the shin for his trouble. “Ow! Mean!”

“For our eyes only, brother. You'll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

“She knows what she’s doing, doesn’t she?” said Greg, admiringly.

“Knew there was a reason I liked her,” agreed John.

“Yes, we all know why _you_ liked her!” said Sherlock, accusingly. “You fancied her rotten!”

“You randy bugger,” chuckled Greg, pinching John’s thigh.

“Sherlock, I fancied _you_ rotten. And then Greg when I met him, and, well, Mycie after that. But, yeah, she was a bit of all right. So? I have broad tastes. What can I say? I appreciate beauty when I see it.”

"Or you’re just a little nympho…,” muttered Sherlock.

“Yes, and thank goodness for it," interjected Mycroft. "Now, might we please get off the subject of the relative attractiveness of Anthea? It makes me rather uncomfortable, she’s like family.”

“You’re literally fucking your own brother!” shouted Sherlock.

“Not for the foreseeable future, I’m not!” riposted Mycroft.

“Oi, oi, you two, knock it off before I text Anthea and ask her to sort you _both_ out.”

Mycroft quailed slightly, before deciding that Greg couldn’t possibly be serious. Still, best not to push one’s luck.

Sherlock turned on Greg, outraged. “You said Mycroft wasn’t allowed to interfere with my punishments anyway! I object in the strongest possible terms!”

“He’s not interfering, he’s outsourcing, and being a very helpful darling. We’re all knackered, but you’re still getting it. Now shut your gob and try to get back in my good books, and maybe I’ll think about striking you a plea deal.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it. He folded his arms with magnificent stroppiness, and seethed in foul temper. Greg shrugged and reinstituted his heavy petting session with John, while Mycroft palmed himself through his trousers, indulging his innate voyeurism.

Fifteen minutes later - during which three quarters of the present company enjoyed themselves and the remainder brooded and shuffled awkwardly - the doorbell rang. Sherlock jumped and looked anxiously towards the door. Mycroft clapped his hands together brightly and got up to answer it while Greg and John extracted themselves from their tryst.

He returned moments later with a black box, a few sizes larger than a shoebox, hinged at the top. Sherlock bit at his lip. A thousand deductions went through his head as he noted the size, shape and scale of the box, calculated the amount of time it had taken Anthea to arrange delivery, the time it took to arrive, the journey it would have taken. He scanned the outside for clues but found no trace of residual matter, no telltale scuff marks, no external markings whatsoever. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for not having X-ray vision. 

Mycroft took the mystery package to the other side of the table, positioning it away from Sherlock's prying eyes. Sherlock - rather too consumed by inconvenient nerves and his mind's frantic rumination over possible outcomes - forgot to misbehave, and sat stock still to watch the ghastly spectacle unfold in front of him.

Mycroft opened the lid, rather too theatrically for his brother's liking. The three men stood and gaped at the contents in wonder. 

Mycroft chuckled knowingly and arched an elegant eyebrow.

"Oh good lord...," said John, awestruck.

"Bloody hell!" laughed Greg. "Yeah, that'll work. Do you know what? I think my headache's gone. Think I might be experiencing a miraculous recovery."

Sherlock huffed and fidgeted on his chair, desperate to know his fate. "What?! You're not funny, you know, Greg! John, stop looking like it's the Holy Grail from that stupid film you made me watch. And, you, Mycroft, you're a total, complete, hugely enormous, gaping c..."

The obscenity he had been about to utter was cut off in its prime by Greg's sudden dangerous glare. Sherlock, despite his defiant rhetoric, fiddled with his shirt cuffs and fretted inwardly, heart racing with grim anticipation.

"You," said Greg, heatedly, pointing at him. "Strip."

Sherlock blushed, whinged, and got 'The Look' again. He stood reluctantly and started undoing his shirt with a mournful air. He tried his utmost to seem very put-upon and martyr-like, hoping against hope for a sympathetic reprieve. The effect was somewhat ruined by the mighty scowl on his face and the fact he was pouting like a very unrepentant schoolboy as he wiggled huffily out of his trousers. Why hadn't he just done the washing up when he was asked the first time, he wondered to himself?

When he was fully naked, his clothes strewn about the dining area for effect, he stood with his hands on his hips and glared at his stony-faced partners, as if to say "Yes, and...?" Generally, they all enjoyed a nude Sherlock, but on this occasion, Sherlock found his exhibitionist tendency somewhat diminished by dread.

Greg reached into the box and pulled out an item - or rather, items - holding them up with a wicked glint in his eye.

"Oh, you are JOKING!" exclaimed a very unhappy Sherlock, his eyes wide. "I won't!" He stamped his foot petulantly. John bit down a fond smile.

"Oh, but you will, brother mine," said Mycroft, with conviction, taking his prize from Greg's hands: a small, delicate pair of pink baby-doll knickers, complete with ruffles, lacy bits and fancy ribbon bows at either side. 

"Ooh, _they're_ very pretty,” said John, holding back an undignified snort. Sherlock looked daggers at him. 

"What a thoughtful gift from dear Anthea. Aren't you grateful, Lock? No? Perhaps if you tried them on?"

"I'm not wearing  _those_!" protested Sherlock, vehemently.

"Such a dreadful temper, you have. I'll wager we can rectify that. On they go, brother - or is it sister? - mine..."

Sherlock let out a squeal of resistance as both Mycroft and Greg launched themselves at him, manhandling him and lifting each of his feet in turn into the leg-holes.

John looked on as though watching some kind of avant-garde French farce, while Greg immobilised Sherlock's arms and Mycroft pulled the dainty knickers up his brother's long, slim legs with a determined yank. They turned him this way and that to assess Anthea's handiwork.

Sherlock groaned in abject humiliation. His new underwear left absolutely nothing to the imagination, not being designed to contain what they were currently failing to contain. The astounding visual effect was not lost on anyone present.

Sherlock wriggled and yanked himself free of his tormentors, breathing shallowly and sweating slightly. "This is how she gets her kicks, making me look ridiculous!" he complained, fidgeting and readjusting the uncomfortable elastic round his crotch. He scratched where the ribbons tickled at his thighs and bum cheeks, twisting and turning his body in frustration, but didn't dare remove them for fear of greater, more painful retribution. He had a horrible feeling he was in quite a lot of trouble.

Greg chuckled sincerely. "Oh, sweetheart, you should look ridiculous, you really should. Anyone else would. But I'm just getting...adorable," he beamed in an infuriatingly patronising tone.

"Greg, please!" whined Sherlock, uselessly trying to squirm away from his hungry eyes.

"Cute, even. Yep. Very, very tidy indeed," he leered, circling Sherlock and eyeing him up proprietorially. This was a new one on him. A very promising new one. He snuck a furtive glimpse at John, who gave the impression of having been recently clonked on the head with a mallet.

The ex-army doctor swallowed hard. "Yeah, quite like those. Naughty little frilly numbers...," he said, distantly. He seemed to be mesmerised by the way the excessively feminine garment clung and poofed out at the back to make Sherlock's luscious backside seem even rounder and bouncier than it was. John had not thought that possible. 

"Charming, dearest, quite charming. I’ve always thought pink was a good colour on your lovely rump," agreed Mycroft, grinning with undisguised delight.

Sherlock didn’t know whether to preen and pose, or be violently sick. He was horrified to discover himself getting an involuntary hard-on – and that only made the silly frilly things strain even more to cover his rapidly growing cock. The tight friction against his sensitised flesh did nothing to ease his predicament. Then a further horrific thought occurred.

"They're not  _her pants_ , are they!?" he exclaimed. "She hasn't just taken them off and sent them over?!"

Mycroft pretended to consider it. "Mm, no, I think not. That would be a step too far, even for an evil mastermind. Not her colour or style, I'm sure. They're new. The label is in the box. Very pricey for such tiny, flimsy things, I don't know why people bother. How she procured them at such short notice, I cannot imagine. If you ask me, the woman has a contact book far more sinister than mine."

Sherlock fumed, beyond speech. In his exposed and furious state, his face was fast becoming as pink as his little-girlie panties. 

"Oh, look, darling," continued Mycroft, enjoying himself immensely, "there are a few other things in here. These." He pulled out a pair of pink washing up gloves, with little flowers at the cuffs. "And a note for you too: 'Big girls do the washing up'. Oh, Anthea, you minx. [...] Hmm, something else. Oh, yes. That. Come to the kitchen, John, will you? I have need of your chopping and peeling skills." 

Sherlock froze and winced. "Oh, fuck," he stated, simply.

Mycroft held up the large ginger root he had extracted from the box with glee. "Oh, as you rightly say, little brother, fuck."

Greg fixed him with a triumphant, meaningful stare and said darkly, "Come on, honeypie. Put your lovely rubber gloves on and get over there. Business before exploitative menial labour, yeah?"


	3. What should Brits call it?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uppance cometh for the washing-up refusenik, thanks to Anthea's lovely accessories and teamwork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's some light smut. Heavy smut to come in the next chapters.

Greg took hold of Sherlock’s arm, as though escorting some local ne’er-do-well to the cells. Followed eagerly by John and Mycroft, he led his prisoner to the open plan kitchen at the top corner of the large multipurpose room, which had once been two rooms for a Victorian family before it was converted by some practical 20th century philistine. The breakfast bar, with its black faux marble worktop, divided the whole space by a quarter, running parallel to the cosy living area, occupied by a substantial sofa, a comfy armchair, the telly, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

In the kitchen sink, a huge mountain of pots, pans and plates were stacked up cartoonishly. Used dishes, bowls, spatulas and cutlery were scattered across every surface. Sherlock regarded them as though they might leap up and bite him.

“Right, put these on and start clearing the worktop,” said Greg, ominously. He threw him the garish pink gloves he’d retrieved from Anthea’s box of evil. Sherlock sighed dramatically, yanked them on, and began shifting things as noisily as possible, enjoying the percussive clatter and clank of china, metal and plastic.

“I don’t need to say ‘if you break something, you’ll be in even deeper shit than you already are’, do I?” asked Greg, politely.

Sherlock huffed, head down, and tried reluctantly to be more careful. Mycroft and Greg seemed to be having a silent conversation behind his back, much to his chagrin, while John set about the ginger root with a vegetable knife on the end of a chopping board yet to be consigned to a pile. Sherlock watched him with doleful eyes and an expert pout.

John gamely ignored him, but then glanced up at Greg, looking slightly unsure of himself.

“OK, so I know what it’s for and all, but I’ve never actually whittled a butt-plug from a piece of ginger before. Little help?”

Mycroft winced. “Oh, John, really, don’t use that word. We’re not _American_.”

John tutted. “Well, what do you want me to say? Arse-plug? Bum-plug? Doesn’t sound right at all.”

“He’s got a point there, love. There isn’t really a good British-flavoured word for it, is there?”

“Hmm, historically speaking this particular thing would be called a feague, but I can see that for sheer descriptive brevity, our cousins across the Pond have the advantage. Surprising we don’t have a more colloquial phrase, given the native proclivity for that particular portion of the anatomy,” mused Mycroft in a contemplative tone.

“Yeah, we are all a bit obsessed with bums in general. Bums, tea and the weather.”

“Let’s just call it a plug, then,” said John, practically.

“Cool. Like the one in the sink. Speaking of which, Sherlock Holmes, you’re about to become acquainted with both…”

The look on Sherlock’s face was a sight to behold. He shook his head with as much gravity as he could muster in his current chastened condition.

“Honestly, you’re all just awful people.”

Mycroft tutted in reproach. “Can’t help yourself, can you? Such naughtiness tonight. Mummy would be appalled.”

“Mummy would be a damn sight more appalled if she knew her beloved boys regularly shoved things up each others’…”

“Yes, thank you. A full catalogue of activities that would appal Mummy will not be necessary,” said Mycroft, censoriously.

Sherlock gave him a rebellious look which did no good at all.

“Oi, gobby,” snapped Greg, reaching out to give his arm a little shake, then keeping hold of it firmly.

Greg turned back to John and smiled excessively sweetly. “You need to cut a nice big piece off, ‘bout this size.” He held his thumb and forefinger four inches apart.

“Any more cheek off this one and we’ll go bigger,” he continued, seizing the initiative. “Peel it, wash it, shape it so it goes in easy and leave a nice flared end so we can pull it out again. Don’t want it getting lost up there, do we?”

John did as he was instructed, trying not to smile at this obvious ruse. Feigning ignorance of how to make the item in question meant that Greg had to spell it out, and that would help Sherlock tune in to his body, heightening the experience for all. Though this was punishment, it was the most intimate kind, and when it was over there would be enough explosive make-up sex to wake half of Lambeth.

He could see Sherlock desperately trying to disappear into one of the more pleasant rooms of his Mind Palace – the Hall of Heroic Deeds, perhaps, or the Trophy Parlour. He also noted that he was failing to lose himself in it, and was becoming anchored to the moment, thanks to Greg’s iron grip, Mycroft’s steely glare, and the fact that, as embarrassing as this little scene was, it was unfortunately getting quite interesting.

John held up the result of his handiwork. A perfectly-formed fresh ginger arse-plug.

Sherlock ducked his head slightly, face burning. His erection seemed to have taken a leave of absence now it was confronted with horrid reality. His face wasn’t the only thing that would be burning soon, he reflected, miserably. Greg seemed to know what he was up to, but this had never been done to him before. 'Bet Mycroft does it to himself when he's having a wank, the pervert,' he thought. Though he was intrigued by the proposition from a purely theoretical (and pornographical) point of view, he had no sense of how it would really feel nor whether he'd be able to cope without disgracing himself. He briefly wondered if Anthea had hacked his laptop and seen his collection of videos on the subject...

Sherlock looked up at the pointed cough from Mycroft, who was regarding his beknickered, blushing little brother with a stern expression. "Over the worktop, brother mine." 

Greg tilted his head and gave him a hawk-like frown.

“Mm. Think I’ll take it from here actually, Mr Holmes. Not your place, is it? Eh? You behave now and let me handle it, or he won’t be the only one sitting uncomfortably while I watch my Hammer Horror later.”

“Oh,” Mycroft faltered and quickly recovered himself. He went red up to his hairline. “No… No, Gregory. As you say. All yours.”

Sherlock was too busy worrying at his lower lip to even mock him.

“Thanks, darlin’,” Greg winked. “I do think you’re right, as it happens. Over the worktop,” he snarled in Sherlock’s ear, letting a bit of aggression through. He pushed him roughly over towards it, halting only to grab a couple of tea towels, which he threw onto the surface that Sherlock had cleared, so it wouldn’t chill his mostly-naked body. Sherlock looked at him gratefully. Greg gave him a crooked grin, which turned feral as he bent Sherlock over at the waist, twisting his arm behind his back for leverage. He positioned him how he wanted over the counter. “Both hands in front of you. Hold onto the edge, so we can see your flowery gloves. Legs apart more, let’s get a look at that frilly little bottom. Good.”

Greg grinned and said to the room at large, “Do you know, I feel quite spritely now. Refreshed. Think a bit of exercise would do me good.”

John laughed out loud, rolling his eyes at Greg’s performance. Sherlock groaned quietly in exasperation.

“Impatient?” Greg said, disingenuously. “You’ll get yours, don’t you worry, sweetcheeks. Now, Dr Watson, are we ready? Yep? Mycie, for being such a helpful lad with such top quality contacts in that phone of yours, you get to do the, er, unveiling, all right?”

Mycroft smiled almost shyly and gave him a look of sincere gratitude. Greg grabbed him and gave him an open-mouthed kiss before turning him towards his brother’s bending form. Leaning down to the countertop, Mycroft tucked a few stray curls of hair behind Sherlock’s ear, brought his mouth to that neat shell, and said in an intense stage whisper: "I'm going to take your knickers down now, baby boy, and Gregory and John are going to administer your discipline. Do you understand?" He caught his earlobe between his teeth and gave it a little lick before pulling away again.

The world slightly titled on its axis for Sherlock, who merely whimpered and squirmed in humiliation. His cock filled out again, plumping up under Mycroft’s verbal assault and pinpoint accuracy for the erogenous sweet spot on his ear. Now fully hard, he was pressed uncomfortably against the work surface, and he unconsciously spread his legs a little wider. He tried to make the most of this momentary pleasure. Within minutes, he knew the situation would take something of a downturn. They seemed intent on tormenting him with this fact; their deviousness was almost admirable.

Sherlock felt Mycroft loop his long fingers on either side of the little pants, and slowly bring them down to reveal his creamy pale backside to the assembled company. He simpered slightly, hearing three gasps of breath catching in three throats, sensing the tension in the room ratcheting up. Sherlock knew his arse was heartstopping. It was a blessing and curse.

Mycroft’s hands rested warmly on both cheeks, briefly communicating reassurance and care, before moving swiftly downwards, taking the pants with them. The air kissed his bare skin and he shivered, goosebumps raising over his body. He swallowed thickly as the knickers halted mid-thigh, feeling more exposed than if they’d just come off completely. Which was, of course, the point.

Greg rummaged around the kitchen, opening drawers and searching the utensil holder.

“Blimey, you two really did use everything in the place, didn’t you? Ah, that’ll do,” he said pragmatically, taking up a long wooden spoon with a flat edge for scraping the sides of a pan. It was slightly heavier and thicker than an average stirring implement, and thankfully hadn’t been employed in making dinner.

Sherlock craned his head around and caught a glimpse of it before John shoved his head back around firmly. He breathed through his nose to calm his racing pulse.

“I’ll think we’ll let the medic do this bit, don’t you? Then I’ll join in when I’ve limbered up a bit,” said Greg, playing to the gallery.

“Not funny, Lestrade,” muttered Sherlock, mutinously, pushed almost beyond endurance. Greg knew the most hated part of any punishment was waiting for it. ‘Damn him for being so good at this,’ thought the very sorry detective.

“Do my ears deceive? Is this little boy bending over in pink frillies giving me lip while I hold this wooden spoon in my hand? Bit unwise, innit?”

Sherlock wisely chose to neither agree nor disagree. A small silence fell. He sensed looks being exchanged behind him. A tacit understanding was reached.

Greg bent down to lean on the counter, propping himself up on his elbows. His voice was lighter, gentler now. “All right, Trouble? Do you have anything you want to say? Apology or safeword, those are your options. Say the word and we’ll stop, love. Not doing anything if you really can’t hack it, OK? Still not getting out of the washing up, though. Even if I do have to spank you every bloody night until it’s finished.”

Sherlock smiled a watery little smile at this expected part of their ritual, so glad it was always honoured. A way out offered; a choice to be made. His consent obviously paramount, even to punishment. And because of this simple fact, he shook his head with sincerity, wincing slightly at the concession to his own deepest needs.

“No,” he said, voice deep and low. “Make me.”

Greg clicked his tongue and nodded perfunctorily.

“Atta boy. Glad to be of service.”

Greg glanced back at John.

“Good to go. All yours, Doc. Time to do Mistress Anthea’s bidding.”

“Thank you, sir. All right, Myc?”

“Indeed. I cede to the professionals in all such matters.”

John approached Sherlock’s quivering backside, exhaling slowly, rolling up his sleeves. He held the ginger plug in one hand, and with the other, ran a finger up and down the cleft, probing in between the obscenely perfect buttocks. He nodded at Greg and Mycroft, and each man took hold of one cheek, spreading them apart to reveal the sweet, pink rosebud of Sherlock’s arsehole. It twitched cutely under their scrutiny. ‘Aw,’ thought John, even has he grew hard in his pants.

Sherlock made a mewling whimper and turned his head from one side to the other. Though no shrinking violet, the exposure made his stomach flutter uncontrollably with nerves and embarrassment. His heart pounded as he felt the scrutiny of his lovers' eyes on his most private place.

“Never get tired of that,” sighed Greg, praying for his own erection to subside so he could carry out his duties.

John placed one hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, pressing down to encourage him to arch and open for him. With a look of clinical concentration, he lined the ginger up with the dainty little aperture, and started pressing slowly. There was quite a bit of resistance as Sherlock clenched against the intrusion. He grunted and whined as even this initial contact caused a burgeoning sting around his sensitive flesh. He was not about to make this easier for John.

“Fine. Tiny bit of lube needed, please nurse.”

Mycroft snorted and reached for a bottle of Extra Virgin Olive Oil. He restrained himself from comment and decided to let the jokes tell themselves.

“Not too much or it’ll spoil the effect, won’t it?” said John. He checked his nails, then lightly oiled up his fingers rather than the ginger, and resumed twiddling at Sherlock’s puckered opening. He inserted one finger only - the middle one – and Sherlock, despite knowing this was all a build up to a very unpleasant evening, sighed almost amorously as John breached him all the way, though not quite far enough to satisfy. John wiggled his finger a bit, causing Sherlock to keen and loosen. “Yep. That’ll do it,” said John, feeling the give in the muscle, with well-rehearsed medical detachment.

Then John pushed the first inch of ginger up that pert, vulnerable bottom, and Sherlock hissed through his teeth as it started to tingle and itch. When two inches were in, he pressed his forehead into the counter, feeling the heat spread in his anus. The third inch made him squeal, and by the time the whole, rather thick plug was seated all the way inside him, it set off a deep, inescapable burn that made him wiggle and sweat and bounce on his toes.

“Ow, ow, ow!” he whinged, pathetically.

“Aw, poor baby,” said Greg. “Nasty Doctor.”

“Yeah, I should be struck off,” deadpanned John.

“Hurts!” moaned Sherlock, screwing his face up in discomfort.

“I should think it does, brother mine,” said Mycroft, approvingly. “Nothing like the old-fashioned methods, don’t you think?”

“Mycie. Don’t!” wailed Sherlock, well on his way to submissive regression. He wriggled more, attempting to bring his hands round to clutch at his bum, and trying to stand back up. Greg pushed him back down with a firm hand between the shoulder blades. Mycroft came round to the other side of the breakfast bar, and held his brother’s wrists firmly, stretching him across the surface and holding him prone.

“Oh, no, you don't. Stay put. We’re not done,” warned Greg.

“Aren’t we?! Oooh…”

“Nope.”

Greg stepped up behind him, wielding the wooden spoon like a tennis racquet. He patted at the flat end of the plug sticking up between the pale globes, causing an ‘ummf!’ noise from his victim. So he did it again. Then he tapped the flat of the spoon experimentally on both fleshy cheeks, just at the plumpest swell before buttock became thigh, gauging the relative heft and density of the implement.

“Twenty to start off with. Never heard such a load of rubbish in my life tonight.”

Sherlock sighed expansively and fidgeted wildly. He wished he hadn’t. He drew his breath sharply in through clenched teeth as the ginger insistently pressed up against his tight channel, renewing its fire. His whole body tensed and strained.

“Yeah, I know,” said Greg, sickly sweet with fake sympathy. “Now, what am I so pissed off about? Why have you landed yourself bare-arsed in my kitchen with a burning backside? Let’s hear it.”

“Not doing my _chores_ and arguing with you,” said Sherlock insubordinately, to Greg’s disbelieving ears.

“Anything else spring to mind?”

“Dunno.”

“Fine. You might want to change your mind about that, my lad.”

So saying, he raised his arm and brought the spoon down on Sherlock’s bare arse with a mighty crack. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade did not mess around.

Sherlock’s breath left his body in one fell wallop and his eyes widened in shock. Behind him, out of his vantage point, John grimaced in empathy. Mycroft gently stoked the top of his hand with one finger even as he held him in place.

“OW!” he exclaimed, unintentionally. He had intended to be very stoic and brave, and was annoyed to find his body was not prepared to obey his brain’s orders.

“Oh, Sherlock,” chided Mycroft. “I don’t know why you think you can receive your thrashings in dignified silence. You have literally never managed it in your entire life. I should know, I’ve been there for most of them.”

“Ow! Ooh – Urrgh! Sss-stop. OW, Gregory, bloody hell!” Every stinging whack of the spoon caused him to clench his bottom, which only brought the burning ginger more prominently to the fore. When he tried to relax his arsehole, his unprepared bottom was struck by Greg's wicked cooking utensil. It was devilish. He was awash in fiery pain, his arse a seething mass of heat and sting and deep burning. He felt like he’d sat on a wasp’s nest.

“Not counting these, are you?” said John, mildly.

“Didn’t say I had to! Ow! All right, I am, I am. That’s eight. Oof! Mmmfff. Ten! Oh, Greg!”

By the time they got to twenty of Greg’s best, Sherlock was a panting, hot mess, inside and out. His formerly peachy backside was a smarting bright pink verging on vermillion, and already showing oval-shaped outlines. He used the impetus of mortification and throbbing pain to shed a few tension tears, sobbing a little to work himself into a state and set the process of catharsis in motion.

Mycroft let go of his wrist and simply held his limp hands, absurdly gloved though they were.

“Ouch, ouch, _ouchy_ ,” he grizzled, squirming against the tea towels on the counter, though he didn’t yet dare reach back to soothe himself.

Greg grunted at this little act, knowing too well they weren’t yet at the sincerely sorry stage.

"Go and clear the rest of the table, fill the sink with suds, then bend back over. We’re not through.”

Groaning with regret and self-pity, Sherlock raised himself up with difficulty, moving his hand back to rub, but forgetting he still had rubber gloves on. The sensation caused him to catch his breath again as the material caught his hot skin.

John shook his head exasperatedly. “No rubbing, and that plug is staying in as well. Pull your knickers up and get on with it, mate.”

Sherlock sulked but did as he was told. ‘Wonders never cease,’ thought John.

“If one of you makes a pun about ‘walking gingerly’ I swear I will scream the place down,” Sherlock mumbled, half-heartedly.

“Oh, you’re gonna do that anyway, baby,” husked Greg.

Sherlock bit his tongue and hastened to comply with his instructions.

When the table was clear and wiped down, the sink full of bubbles and the dirty dishes piled in orderly rows awaiting their turn, Sherlock threw himself back down on the breakfast bar in another, unwise display of temper.

“Eager for more, are we?” Greg’s lips quirked up, and he gathered up his improvised tool once again. Keen to resume, he simply yanked the silly pants down himself, baring Sherlock’s punished bottom quickly and carelessly.

To Mycroft’s great surprise, Sherlock actually reached out for his hands, opening and closing his fingers until he took them. He stilled instantly, just trusting Mycroft to hold him in place and see him through. The elder Holmes’s heart ached with warmth for his contrary baby brother.

Greg caught Mycroft’s eye and smiled knowingly.

“More of the same. This is going to be sore. Why are you being disciplined? I want a better answer than the last one,” he said, in a tone that brooked no dissent.

“OW! Fu…”

“Oi. Answer the question. List your crimes and misdemeanours, sharpish.”

“Ooh! Erm… Being rude to you, ow! Spoiling for a fight! Insulting Mycie! _Ah-ah!_ Being a selfish, ungrateful, entitled snob and, oh!...”

“And?”

“Erm… Being a – _no,_ _Greg_! - dickhead to lovely John, and saying a stupid sexist thing which I didn’t even _mean_ , thank you Anthea!” he finished, defiantly.

Greg allowed himself a small fond grin, but finished the final five breathtaking blows in quick succession. ‘Just at the limit of tolerance. No harsh bruises, but that is going to hurt to sit on for a while,’ he calculated with an expert eye.

Sherlock howled sincerely this time, open-mouthed. His legs kicked out to try and rid himself of the overwhelming sensation thrumming through his arse. How could a wooden spoon and a piece of vegetable matter hurt this much? Why couldn’t his brain override it? It never could, and it was simply infuriating. He panted heavily, making pitiful little noises on the out-breath. His vision was blurred with tears and he was disgusted to find he was a bit dribbly and snotty.

Greg placed the spoon back on the surface and gently hoisted Sherlock’s limp body upwards. He turned him to look him in the eye, his expression soft and patient as he wiped at Sherlock’s wet face with a clean tea towel. He rubbed at his upper arms then pulled him into a cuddle and murmured shushing noises. Sherlock cried even harder. “Sore,” he mumbled. John and Mycroft looked on with something like adoration at both of them, exchanging meaningful glances.

“Yeah, I know, baby. Aw. I’m a horrible man,” Greg said, soothingly. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

Steeling himself to see this through and not just give in and rush to the making up part, he let Sherlock go. He placed a finger under his chin and pulled his head up to look him sternly in the eye.

“Right, you. Come on, now. Make a start on this lot. If I hear another squeak of protest or attitude out of you, you'll get another ten, and another, and so on, and you'll still have to finish it. I don't care if it takes all night or all week. Don't half-arse it in the hope of finishing quickly, and don't do a rubbish job thinking one of us will crack and finish it for you and never make you do it again. If you do it properly - Dr Watson will be checking for surgical standards of cleanliness - I'll commute your sentence and we can move on to other, more enjoyable activities. How does that sound, Lockie?"

"Fiendish!”

"Good. Get on with it." 

"Yes, Gregory," said Sherlock, forlornly. 

"There's a good girl," said Greg, earning himself a disgusted grimace. “And while you’re at it, want you to have a bit of a think about _why_ you needed to be a provoking little git earlier. We’ll talk. But first, I’ve got a film to watch, and a couple of blokes to get my mitts on while you tidy up.”

Sherlock looked glum, and a flash of jealous anger crossed his damp face.

“Don’t worry, you daft sod, we're not gonna forget you, are we? Better you do here, better it is after.” Greg slapped Sherlock’s covered bum sharply, eliciting another hiss and a squeak.

Sherlock frowned, searching Greg’s face for truth. Seeing it, he gave a small, satisfied nod. Finally, he got his hands in the water, and began breaking the habit of a lifetime while the others moved to the sofa.


	4. Never a chore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The washing up gets done. So does Mycroft. Friday night begins to improve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy on the Johncroft. Greg and Sherlock get an eyeful. Everyone will get more in the next chapter.

Sherlock grumbled inwardly as he began scraping and scrubbing at the remnants of the truly epic banquet that had evidently been served, cursing his brother’s gluttony and talent for haute cuisine. He watched out of the corner of his eye, resentfully, not daring to do it brazenly, as his three lovers settled themselves in the living area. Greg was rummaging with his DVD collection. ‘Who even has DVDs anymore?’ he asked himself, but, he had to admit, he found it rather adorable that Greg did.

He continued his task and, after a longish while, other thoughts crossed the floor of his mind – a few answers to a few puzzles, a couple of ‘oh!’ moments regarding old unsolved cases, a smattering of ideas for his next experiment, and a flash of pleasant memories about Greg, and John, and Mycroft. A little flurry of emotions – familiar from earlier in the day – arose out of the darkness, and he focused in on accurately identifying them. _Oh. Right! That’s what they were. Huh._ He dismissed them and filed them away for his later talk with Greg.

His brain shifted into a comfortable cruising gear, finding the rhythmic, repetitive act of washing and rinsing to be hypnotic, promoting something that might have been calm. Oddly, his tender backside and the still-invasive, spicy plug weren’t bothering him quite as much, and he discovered he wasn’t even irritated by the girly underwear. His heart slowed, pulse slowed, breathing slowed… Oh, no… He wasn’t… _enjoying_ doing the washing up, was he? It couldn’t possibly be almost…therapeutic, could it? He suppressed a shiver, but carried on regardless.

He was dimly aware of his partners talking in the adjacent space, and he tuned into them as though to a distant radio broadcast, vicariously enjoying their interplay. But he longed to return to his rightful place amongst them.

'Patience. Work. Finish this', he told himself. 'Then everything will be all right.'

*****

In the living area, a debate was in progress.

“Legend of the Seven Golden Vampires?” suggested Greg, hopefully, fishing it out of the pile of DVDs he’d assembled to make a shortlist of options. He stood, flipping through a few.

John grimaced as he perused the shelves. “Oh, not again, Greg, honestly, I just couldn't. Devil Rides Out?”

“I said a crap film, not a really, _really_ good one. Something that'll make you want to cuddle up to me, but we can tune out so I can have my wicked way with you."

“But you don’t think any of them are crap, do you?”

“Nah, love ‘em.”

"I rather like anything Quatermass-y...," said Mycroft, speculatively, arms folded as he sat back into the sofa, one leg crossed elegantly over the other.

"Nope, too interesting. You'll end up concentrating on it. I know - Doctor Jekyll and Sister Hyde!" cried Greg, holding it aloft in triumph.

"Yeah, go on then," said John, deciding to allow himself to be persuaded. ‘The things we do for love’, he thought.

Mycroft made a little moue of antipathy. "Oh, dear. If you must, Gregory. I can easily tune that out," he said in a long-suffering sort of way.

"No taste, some people."

Mycroft gave him his best wicked smirk and leaned forward. "On the contrary, my taste is impeccable. As I will endeavour to prove if you'll let me..." He unfurled his limbs and lay back rather more wantonly than his customary rigid posture; legs splayed out, one arm flung over the back of the sofa, head titled slightly to the side.

Greg kissed the air at him. "Raunchy. Get that waistcoat and shirt off - sure I set a 'no waistcoats in front of the telly' policy, didn't I…?"

"Be grateful he isn't wearing the arm garters, mate,” said John, faintly. He was staring intently at Mycroft’s long, relaxed body - all louche temptation and natural poise. Mycroft licked his lower lip and trapped his tongue between his teeth, lending him a rakish air.

"And you can get rid of that jumper, Watson. I've had a trying time and I need some pampering," decreed Greg.

"Think you're on a promise tonight, then, do you?" John whipped the jumper and the t-shirt underneath over his head.

He cast a heated look at Greg, eyes blown wide and glinting, then strolled over to him with a measured swagger. He shoved at his chest until Greg fell willingly backwards into the armchair. Greg’s breath caught as he landed, and he gazed at them both, looking exactly like a man who knew how lucky he was.

"As it happens,” said Mycroft, smoothly, “I seem to recall you promising me 'big rewards' for my outstanding contribution to fine dining. I want to collect on that promise, Gregory.” He got to his feet with easy grace and joined John in front of the armchair, stripping himself sensually and methodically as he went. 

"I know what _you_ want," said Greg, certainly, determined to assert himself. 

"Oh?"

"Mmm. Saw you copping a feel of John between main course and dessert, and over coffee an’ all."

"Well, I'm not a stupid man, Gregory, am I?"

"No, you're a brazen hussy, is what you are. Ogling and groping our John so shamelessly.”

Mycroft’s mouth dropped open slightly, but he did not deny it.

“Hmm, as I thought. All this cooking shit’s just an excuse to rub up against each other in Waitrose when no-one’s looking. You’ve both had hard-ons for each other all day, I bet…”

“Hard-ons? Yeah, I’d say so. Not only though,” said John, catching on. “Myc’s had a _wide-on_ for me all day,” he continued, silkily. “Likes a man who helps out in the kitchen. Been _drooling_ over my cock – yeah, I saw you – daydreaming about it. Bet he’s been ready for hours, all open and loose. Practically feeling me up your arse, weren’t you?”

Mycroft blushed and attempted to stammer a reply at this thrilling turnabout. The atmosphere crackled between them. He peripherally sensed Sherlock turn his head towards them, and caught the shuddering, lustful breath his brother exhaled over the faint sloshing of water.

Greg grinned lasciviously as John continued in his most tantalising, most obscene voice.

“Want me to make it hard for you, posh boy? Yeah? Want a nice soldier to fuck that uptight little arsehole of yours?”

Mycroft almost fell down, and would have buckled at the knees except that his feet seemed to be rooted to the ground. He attempted a rejoinder but his tongue wasn’t working properly at the moment. John seized the opportunity to press his advantage.

“Or do you want the Doctor? Want to be examined down there and made to cough? Get a bit of what your brother got? Want me to make it all wet, then kiss it and make it better, hmm?”

“Nnng… John… I…” Mycroft shook his head in a daze, before settling on one phrase, and one phrase only: “Captain. Captain Watson…”

“Yeah, thought so. Filthy fucker,” said the officer in question jovially, practically bouncing with anticipation.

Greg groaned, and pressed his cock down through his uncomfortably tight jeans. Then he gave up on the pretence that they were actually going to have to sit through a film.

“Fuck Dr Jekyll. I want to watch this instead. Make it good for me.”

From the kitchen, Sherlock clanged a pan too loudly to be accidental, and Greg turned his head sharply towards him. “Behave. Scrub quicker and there might just be something left for you here.”

Sherlock scowled, but nodded and started harassing the plates with extreme prejudice.

“Get your kit off and come here, Holmes,” commanded John, having the time of his life. Mycroft hastened to obey, discarding his clothes with uncharacteristic carelessness.

Greg hastily stripped off his own t-shirt, and lowered his jeans and pants. He didn’t bother taking them off completely, enjoying the restriction and the additional thrill of masturbating almost fully clothed. He played idly with his substantial cock as it filled to hardness, gripping it at the base first to gain some measure of control over himself. He fully intended to save his orgasm for Sherlock, but he had been known to go and go when the mood was right. As with dinner, so with sex: he knew he’d have room for seconds. Even thirds, until they were all completely stuffed.

He reached frantically for the bottle of lube he had stashed in the coffee table drawer - kept there for occasional weekend porn binges - and anointed himself with it. He sighed in relief as his pent up tension began to be assuaged via the best possible method.

With a leisurely hand he stroked his cock as he watched John and Mycroft passionately snogging each others’ faces off, both now down to their pants and socks. Their bodies undulated in sync. John reached up into Mycroft’s auburn hair, messing it into curls, then snaked both hands down his sides and round to cup his arse, pulling his cheeks apart. Mycroft grasped at John’s broad back and rutted against him, his greater height causing his back to curve as his hips canted helplessly forward. 

“Put a towel down, I don’t want jizz on the sofa again,” warned Greg, a little breathlessly.

“Tch. Put a blacklight on that sofa and you’ll see how pointless that is,” said Mycroft, through gasps, as John rapidly divested him of his pants. His heavy cock caught on the waistband, and then sprang free, flushed and smooth, and utterly delicious-looking.

“Leave his socks and garters on,” said Greg, with a toothy leer and a suggestive waggle of his brows. “I like it.”

“Kinky bastard,” accused John, yanking his own pants off and kicking them somewhere across the room. Greg shrugged happily.

John grasped Mycroft’s cock roughly with one hand, and brought the other up to his hair again, pulling his head back with some force.

“Yes, sir… Oh, sir, no, stop…,” moaned Mycroft, light-headed and desperate. Greg smirked. He always swore Mycroft had every bit as much talent for performance as his younger brother - possibly more. Out of all of them, Mycroft seemed to be the one that got off on roleplaying the most. John simply had a love of fulfilling fantasies whenever he could, delighted to be allowed to play little power games to their most obscene conclusion. Greg himself just liked it any way he could get it, as did Sherlock, with additional sensory incentives, like pain, to keep things interesting.

John hustled Mycroft over to the sofa and tumbled him onto his back, then climbed aboard to straddle his hips. The pair maintained intense eye contact until Mycroft submissively looked away, playing at coyness, playing the ‘oh, sir!’ card, which suited John just fine.

Greg stroked himself harder, fondling his length with smooth, lubricious strokes, curving his palm just _there_ over his thick, leaking head. He watched intently as his lovers writhed together, cavorting for his pleasure. When their bare cocks rubbed up against each other, all three men in the living room moaned, and so did the one in the kitchen. Greg reached his other hand down to his balls and lower, teasing himself with steady, questing fingers.

John cast a devilish look at his prey, and moved himself up over Mycroft’s chest, his movements rendered slightly less erotic when he became impeded by stray cushions half-trapped under his partner’s back. He yanked them violently away and threw them off. Mycroft giggled, but stopped abruptly when John placed a hand lightly against his throat. John held his cock teasingly to Mycroft’s chin, looming above him possessively. Mycroft keened, greedy to taste. His tongue searched for it, and John pushed himself closer until Mycroft was able to caress the blunt, firm head with his lips. He strained to get more of it in, looking pleadingly up at ‘Captain Watson’, who repositioned his hips and sank deeper into the hot, wet mouth in a controlled but firm slide.

John’s mouth opened, his face twisted in bliss, and he let out a loud, continuous moan as Mycroft sucked and licked and swallowed around him with precision and skill. He leant forwards, bracing himself with one hand on the sofa arm above Mycroft’s head for better leverage, and to avoid hurting the man beneath him. He felt himself in Mycroft's throat and almost swooned. He was more than ready for this. He’d been hard on and off all day, and after the little scene in the kitchen, his cock was overly-sensitised and his balls ached. His lower back, his core, was alight with the need to come; and Mycroft knew it. He tried to breathe through it, seeking mental diversion to prevent himself spoiling the ride too early. He hit upon the perfect distraction.

Mycroft was both orally and aurally fixated, they’d discovered. Perhaps something to do with having a prodigious talent for languages. ‘No harm in a bit of verbal when he can’t answer back’, thought John, and commenced a stream of filth that was like music to his lovers’ ears.

“You love it, you public school twats, don’ya? All the nice Whitehall boys like a bit of rough with a dirty squaddie. Gettin’ fucked by uniform. Is it guilt ‘cos you spend so much time fucking the army with funding cuts and dodgy dossiers? Look at you, sucking my cock like back-alley trade.”

Mycroft groaned deeply, and Greg huffed a delighted, mucky laugh. John’s accent always sank further into the Estuary in extremis, whether fighting or fucking.

“Chuck us that,” said John to Greg, twisting his upper body towards him as much as he was able while his cock was being expertly worshipped. Greg threw the lube bottle, which John caught one-handed. He winked in thanks and Greg resumed fucking his own hand in a stop-start rhythm. John wasn’t the only one trying to make himself last for a more respectable duration.

John pulled himself away from Mycroft’s mouth, and watched as a line of spit and pre-come came with it. Mycroft looked like he’d been deprived of a chocolate éclair and pouted with conviction, giving his best Sherlock impression.

“Turn over,” demanded John, lifting himself off to let him do so. As he rose, John saw how straining and shiny Mycroft’s own, desperately hard prick was. He hadn’t touched himself at all. A typical Holmesian trait – attempted mastery of the transport; self-imposed endurance testing; refusal to give in for as long as possible, until someone forced your hand, or you just couldn’t stand it anymore.

As Mycroft rolled over onto this front, John realised something. “Nope, not like that. Over the back of the sofa. Face the kitchen, arse towards Greg,” he ordered.

Sherlock, being only human, and down to his final few dishes, was unable to resist a peek, having thus far been tormented by sounds and suppositions. He cast them a smouldering look, caught John’s eye and sent him wordless gratitude. 

Mycroft bent over, placing one knee up on the sofa and keeping the other foot on the floor. He gripped the back of the furniture and arched his spine, provocatively pushing his backside out towards John’s groin. He had his eyes closed, evidently not yet ready to meet his brother’s fierce, needy gaze.

Behind him John stepped off to the side to give Greg a good view, then slicked up his fingers to rub, tickle and press at Mycroft’s inviting, pulsating hole.

He suddenly couldn’t recall the last time they’d done this. 

Mycroft groaned ardently as he was stretched open on one, then two of John’s thick, stubby fingers, gritting his teeth as a third joined rather sooner than expected. He unclenched himself and bore down, finding his equilibrium while John patiently waited for him to adjust to being penetrated.

“All right, love?” whispered John, all concern and care.

“Mmm. Yes. _Sir_ …” said Mycroft, with a sneer in his voice.

John took the hint, and crooked his fingers up, grazing the other man’s pleasure-point. “Ooh, there it is,” he crooned, and leaned in to deliver another smutty soliloquy as he stroked the sensitive nub inside Mycroft’s arse.

“I’m gonna _bruise_ you, Holmes, bruise you up the arse so you feel it ‘til next week, sittin’ in big important meetings with your arsehole tingling, dripping my spunk down your bloody sock garters…” 

Mycroft made an astounded, animalistic sound, somewhere between a grunt and a bleat.

Even Greg’s eyebrows raised. John had the filthiest mouth of anyone he’d ever met, and considering the nature of their professional lives, that was a very, very broad field of contenders. The Army, the NHS, Westminster, and the Met. 'Best dirty-minded perverts in the world,' he thought, patriotically.

“Don’t need much prep, sluts like you,” growled John at Mycroft, pulling out of the well-lubricated arse. He scissored his fingers as he did so for good measure. Despite his bluff, he always took great care in these matters. It was enough.

He gripped Mycroft’s hips roughly, letting his nails dig in as he pulled his arse towards him. From this position, the height difference ceased to matter, and he found the angle that suited him by placing one foot on the edge of the sofa seat. The position allowed him greater range of motion and more control. His head swam as he pushed against the unresisting little star, sliding hot and wet. He rose up on the ball of his planted foot, legs shaking as he forced his way in. Mycroft pushed back, his arsehole blooming open like a flower, until it was perfect.

Mycroft’s long, graceful neck stretched as his head fell back and he gave in to the heady sensation of being used. When he opened his eyes, he found himself pinned by Sherlock’s intense, lust-dazed stare from across the room. “Oh, John… Oh, Sherlock… Gregory…,” he moaned, dedicating his passion to them all, like the indulged, insatiable boy he knew himself to be.

“Shut it, you tart,” growled John. Then in his usual, sweet voice, he groaned out, “Oh, fuck, you’re _deep_ , love, oh, Jesus…,” and pretence fell away as it became all about them.

Mycroft’s entire body jolted as his prostate was battered again and again, sending sparks shooting into his brain, short-circuiting the system; the perpetual advantage of having a horny GP for a lover, he thought.

John pushed harder and deeper still, desperate to be completely consumed by the tight, hot flesh of the British Government. He set a frenetic pace, his hips jerking and thrusting almost beyond his control, as he took his pleasure from the willing, pliant form.

Sherlock had become a statue - albeit an oddly-dressed one - and stood taking them all in: Mycroft, brain-dead and scandalised by his own sensations; John, biting at his lower lip in concentration and near-exquisite agony; Greg, laid out magnificently, pulling at his big cock like a beast, eyes ablaze and dangerous.

“John! John! Yes!” bellowed Mycroft, desperately gripping the back of the sofa with all his might as he was brutally fucked into orbit.

“Farkin’ell…” exclaimed Greg, his voice husky and coarse. He stroked his leaking prick frantically now, intent on rubbing one out like a teenager for the first time. “Boys… Fuck…”

John picked up the pace, hearing that Greg was close, and desperate for release himself.

“Oh, uh... You fucking… Yeah, mmnngh…!” babbled John, nearly, _nearly_ over the edge.

Just as John crested the wave, Sherlock, who had been waiting in the wings for the entire, infuriatingly distant erotic encounter, executed his _coup de grace_. “Finiiiiished!” he shouted as loudly and obnoxiously as he could, throwing his pink flowery gauntlets onto the worktop with a satisfying slap.

John nodded frantically. “Ye-yeah, me too…,” he wailed, his face a devastated mask of outrageous pleasure, and then he shuddered himself apart as he came deep inside Mycroft’s clutching, hot and slippery channel.

At the same time, Greg looked up in surprise, faltering, as Sherlock's interruption threw off his race to climax. 

John collapsed over Mycroft’s back as though he’d run a marathon, while Mycroft twitched and writhed. He still hadn’t come, but he gripped his prick tightly and enjoyed the sensation of John, still half-hard, jolting inside him. Still plenty of time to deal with it.

With great difficulty, Greg removed his hand from his throbbing cock, and breathed deeply, eyes rolling back in his head as he attempted a measure of self-discipline. He looked up at Sherlock’s eager, hopeful face, still alight with mischief, but not sulky anymore, not in his bratspace.

“You don’t half pick your moments, you little... Get over here, Trouble,” he ground out. Sherlock’s eyes lit up and he bounded round, stripping off his knickers with glee and coming to rest on his knees in front of him.

“Turn round, let’s get that thing out of you.”

“Thank you!” breathed Sherlock with relief. He fell onto all fours and presented his backside. Greg extracted the evil plug, watching transfixed as Sherlock’s reddened hole released it and closed over. His sculpted bottom cheeks were marred with purpling welts and a hot pink glow. “Pretty boy,” Greg murmured.

Sherlock blushed and preened as he turned back round, still on all fours.

“Sorry for ruining the evening,” he said, sheepishly, looking up at Greg through his lashes.

“Oh, I think we can probably find a way of rescuing it, don’t you?” Greg stroked his thumb down one high cheekbone, and Sherlock took it into his mouth provocatively.

“How are you doing, mate?” asked John, craning his neck round from his position still lodged inside Mycroft.

“M’all right, thank you, John,” Sherlock replied, lightly, letting Greg's fingers go with a wet slurp. “How are _you_?”

John snorted. “Never better.” Mycroft giggled quietly, still panting.

“Hope you’re happy, violating my big brother like that, _Captain_ …,” teased Sherlock.

“Very, ta. Buggered him stupid. But he still hasn’t come yet… Fancy a go?”

“Hmm,” said Greg, evilly. “Pull out, soldier. Get him back on his front, arse in the air. No spillages.”

Mycroft hastened to comply, tilting his hips up, retaining John’s copious spend inside him.

“Lockie, my angel... Remember that thing we talked about?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Would you like to do it now? For being a good boy again?”

“Mm-hm, yes, please, Greg...”

“Have at it, sweetheart. I’m going at the other end.”


	5. Another fine mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A finale of fine filth. Well, filth.

Mycroft Holmes was not a man given to hyperbole. But, he reflected, as he knelt on all fours - his high arse full of John Watson’s fresh ejaculation – there was literally not a single human in the entire world (present company excepted) having a better sex life than he was. Rabbits, possibly. Stoats, conceivably. Bonobo monkeys, almost certainly. But humans, not a one.

After the Captain’s first foray, here were reinforcements, sent in to conquer territory that had long since gladly waved the white flag. Gregory Lestrade, with his squarely masculine frame, and his own wondrously lithe and lissom brother, were stalking towards him as though he were an all-you-can-eat buffet five minutes before closing time. Sex had addled his metaphors beyond redemption, but he gave not a solitary toss.

Greg nudged Sherlock towards Mycroft’s back end, studiously ignoring the inquisitive look the prone man gave him. Sherlock disappeared from his brother’s eyeline, while Greg came to stand at the head end of the sofa.

“Up, this way. Carefully,” commanded Greg. Mycroft shuffled obediently forwards as Greg stepped in towards him, until his really _very_ hard prick filled his field of vision. In widescreen. Mycroft leant his elbows on the sofa arm, the desired position clear. Both of Greg’s hands reached out and held his ears like handles. Mycroft registered the odd sensation and decided he liked it. Ears were a definite Holmes thing.

He butted his head forwards, trying to get Greg’s juicy glans between his lips, as he had with John, but Greg held him off, just out of reach. "Ooh, Gregory, let me. That looks like it  _throbs_...," he insisted, inhaling the spicy high-low musk of his lover's dark groin; the scent that switched on some deep evolutionary compulsion to happily debase himself in service of another. 

“Ssh,” soothed Greg, stroking his ear tips and making his shiver. Then he called out, “Johnnyboy, go and check the kitchen while you recover your strength, eh?”

John grinned lazily from his position collapsed in the armchair, and nakedly shifted himself across the space, leering appreciatively at Sherlock's arse as he passed behind him. He feinted a smack at it, and Sherlock flinched and dodged. "Sod off, John!", he complained, annoyed at himself for falling for such a typically Watsonian trick. 

John reached the sink, and gave a cursory check of the diligently cleaned, stacked crockery. He gave it a nod of approval to play along - and then noticed something. The right side of his mouth lifted in amusement and he looked across at Greg with an unreadable micro-expression. The adjacent tableau of filth seemed to be on pause as they awaited his verdict, like a scene from one of Greg’s naughty DVDs.

“What?” queried Greg, as he idly rubbed his cock up and down Mycroft’s perspiring face.

“Nothing. All fine on the sanitation front. Carry on, guv,” he said, cheerily. He returned to the armchair, slapping at Sherlock’s sore bottom as he went. His hand made a connection this time, earning him a yelp and a murderous look. Then he settled back to watch the show, and wait for his second wind.

When all four of them romped together, the logistical complexities of getting all their rocks off usually gave one or two of them enough refractory time to get horny again, creating a kind of eternal erotic feedback loop, which none of them ever complained about. It really had been a while since they'd last managed to get the full complement of Quartet Fuckfest in one room, John reflected. Or at least, all naked in one room, with time, inclination and energy. This was long overdue.

On the sofa, Mycroft wriggled and moaned in frustration at still not getting what he wanted, as keen as any Holmes boy for some attention. Behind him, Sherlock smirked to see his brother so unbuttoned and in thrall to his desires.

“Ooh, go on then,” said Greg, winking at Sherlock, and finally pushed his cock into the yearning mouth. Mycroft opened his throat, controlling his not-as-strong-as-it-used-to-be gag reflex to give Greg full access. 

Looks were exchanged above and behind him, and Mycroft felt a cool hand high on his right flank. Long, dextrous fingers stroked at his flesh with reverence and familiar knowledge. He tensed and held his breath.

The first touch of Sherlock’s hand was always a moment to relish. Electrical charge flowed between them. High voltage. Same as it had ever been, since they’d started touching each other a long time ago, compelled by simple logic and empirical evidence. One Holmes mind, one Holmes existence; too complex and sophisticated to be contained within one body, thus split into two Holmes men by biological wisdom to ensure survival of the entire, extraordinary organism. Each man touched himself when he touched the other - their touches now shared with two more, to create a bigger, harmonious circuit.

Mycroft lifted himself from reverie as the hand moved inwards towards his flooded arsehole. He heard a low, baritone hum of satisfaction and wonderment. Greg pulled away, sensing that fraternal communication was about to ensue. His cock suctioned out of Mycroft’s mouth with a delectably revolting noise. He’d waited this long. He could wait a little longer. It always paid to listen to them talk.

Sherlock tutted reprovingly. “Oh, brother. You are a dreadful _mess_.”

“Mmm,” agreed Mycroft. “Shocking.”

Mycroft heard the wicked grin lifting the corners of Sherlock’s wide, bow-like mouth.

“Need help cleaning up? I’m rather good at it lately.”

‘Oh, God,’ thought Mycroft. ‘I might expire.’

“Whatever you like, dearest,” he said, carefully, no insistence or pressure evident in his smooth voice, while his animal brain screamed "Do it!"

Another cool hand was placed upon him, and both hands together pulled and uplifted his buttocks. The sofa bowed under Sherlock’s weight as he came to kneel closer, leaning down to examine his brother’s gaping arsehole.

“I like _this_ ,” replied Sherlock, with cast-iron certainty.

“Then…,” began Mycroft, hardly daring to breathe. But he was cut off by his own nerve endings, alive and sparking under the first tender ministrations of Sherlock’s tongue.

“ _Oh_ - _oh_ ,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “Oh, Lock. Oh, you _sweet_ kitten…”

Sherlock huffed a laugh, ironically causing Mycroft to yowl like one.

His lips played against his brother’s sticky hole, lapping so gently, so enticingly as to be barely there. Mycroft made noises he had no idea any human or feline, let alone himself, could make. So rare, this particular pleasure. So special. His cock strained and dripped as he was eaten. Sherlock’s appetite simply made him crave.

Sherlock toyed and licked, nibbled and sucked, alternating hard and soft. His senses overflowed, awash in Mycroft’s most intimate flesh. His head span with sensation and power, as he rendered his adored and adoring brother helplessly incoherent. He absorbed his unique pheromonal profile - ineffably but specifically Mycroft - as it intermingled with John’s flavour, and took as much fluid essence as he could into his mouth.

Then Sherlock pulled back up, noting that although Mycroft was entirely elsewhere, Greg was not. Greg was alert and beckoning to him, his eyes dilated fully black with desire.

“Share,” he growled.

Sherlock did. He leaned forward over his brother’s body, using his backside as a ledge, pressing him uncomfortably into the sofa cushions. Greg leaned in from the other side, pushing Mycroft’s head down with both hands. Above him, Mycroft dimly registered the sound of a wet, sloppy kiss, loaded with groans, desperate little guttural sounds, and the smacking of sticky lips as two of his lovers snowballed the spunk of the third between them. Warmth rained upon his back - remnants of John’s semen which was now mostly running down Sherlock’s chin.

Sherlock inhaled expansively, replete and satisfied, as Greg gathered up the spilled drops and wiped them back onto his face, rendering the dark-haired man utterly debauched-looking. Greg wiped his own mouth, spat, and gave him that too.

“Hhmmm. Thank you for dinner, brother,” said Sherlock, deeply, licking his lips. “Tasty and talented indeed.”

From the armchair, John snorted. “You three, honestly…," he said, biting on two of his own fingers as he manipulated himself to semi-hardness.

Between them, Greg and Sherlock rescued Mycroft from his face-plant in the sofa, bringing his mouth back up onto Greg’s cock, who resumed fucking it in earnest.

Sherlock went over to John, smiling wetly, beaming with pride. John gestured to him to sit on his lap, which he did somewhat delicately, his gangling body draping over the shorter man. John made an ‘oof’ sound as Sherlock wiggled and crushed his tender parts. He re-positioned himself more comfortably by hanging Sherlock’s splayed legs slightly off to one side. Sherlock's long back pressed to his chest, and his head lolled back onto his shoulder.

"You're a lanky streak, you are," he said, affectionately, into his ear. Sherlock turned into the side of his face.

"Short-arse. Be nice to me, John," he pleaded in fun.

"Always. Want fingers?"

"Na. Still a bit hurty. Just hand."

John kissed the soft bit behind his ear, and brought one hand round to masturbate his lover’s long, slim prick, enjoying the familiar velvety feeling between his fingers. Making a V-shape with two fingers, he rubbed at the little dart of his sensitive frenulum and was rewarded with a high-pitched, close-mouthed whine. His cock, squashed against Sherlock’s sizzling backside, began to take more of an interest, but he’d need a little while before really giving it his all. Sherlock brought both arms up and over his head to caress John's hair, stretching out his lean torso in a pose of Renaissance artistry as he let himself be pleasured.

The room fell into a sort of companionable silence, with an undercurrent of ambient lewdness. Greg panted, Mycroft sucked. Sherlock whimpered as his nipples were pinched and flicked by John’s clever fingers, heightening the thrum of pleasure being wrought through his cock.

Suddenly, the sounds changed, and Greg was grunting, coming in Mycroft’s mouth, pulsing again and again with agitated jerks. He groaned from deep inside his chest, and Mycroft did likewise, sending reverberations through Greg’s swollen flesh that only made his orgasm more intense. Then Greg leaned down and hastily whispered something into Mycroft’s ear.

Mycroft nodded, still holding Greg’s spent prick on his tongue. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, too intent on John’s hands and his own climax to notice that his brother had neither spat nor swallowed.

When he looked back up, Mycroft had risen and was upon him. His mouth was full, and then, as he leaned over his brother’s upper body, it suddenly wasn’t. Greg’s come splattered onto his chest, rolling down to pool in his belly button, adding to the earlier mess of John. Sherlock’s mouth opened in gleeful surprise, and John renewed his efforts on the sensitive little nipples, wringing squeals from the messy creature on his lap.

Mycroft bent to place his forehead on Sherlock’s. Their eyes burned into each other and they breathed into each others' mouths in mutual connection. Greg came up behind Mycroft, red-faced and dopey-eyed from coming his brains out. He grinned over Mycroft’s shoulder as he slipped a thick finger inside his still-lubricated hole. Mycroft bit at his lip and groaned as Greg massaged his prostate with vigour and wanked his cock in time to John’s own rhythm with Sherlock.

All of them panted together wordlessly, falling into perfect sensual sync, before Sherlock emitted a frantic little sound. Mycroft followed suit, his eyes screwed shut in concentration, frowning and biting down on nothing. The Holmes brothers’ handlers breathed hotly and heavily into their ears, determined to stimulate as many senses as they could access. Finally, both Holmes brothers gave in. The tips of their cocks melted in heat and they spurted warm gushes near-simultaneously all over Sherlock’s stomach, chest, neck and face.

John, not for the first time, was caught in the crossfire. He wiped at the glob of Holmes DNA in his hair, guessing it was Sherlock's. Then he reached down to the splodgy chest, gathered some of the viscous substance up on his palm, and ran it with great deliberateness through Sherlock’s sweaty loose curls.

“There you go,” he said, magnanimously.

The poor creature was pasted in all four of them, and he had never looked happier.

“Dirty, dirty boy,” teased Greg.

“Vile,” agreed Sherlock, blissfully, his voice faint and thin.

“Disgusting little beast,” lovingly murmured Mycroft as he kissed him, tasting traces of all of them.

John had his own staunch opinion: “Filthy fucker,” he declared.

“We’re all filthy fuckers,” said Greg, quite reasonably. “And so is the sofa, and the flipping chair now as well. Thanks a bunch for not putting a towel down like I asked!”

“Jizzy sofa,” chuckled John, as Mycroft grimaced.

“Sod it, I’ll have to do a deep clean sooner or later. Bathtime for baby, I reckon, don’t you?” Greg said, looking down at Sherlock’s painted skin.

“Yes, please. Someone can wash me up for a change,” cheeked Sherlock, “and put Duckward in for me.”

“But of course, dear brother. Can’t have bathtime without Duckward.”

Nobody moved, all too completely exhausted and bedraggled to make the effort. A companionable hush fell and they sort of collapsed around each other.

Greg sank down onto the floor, leaning back on his hands facing the crowded armchair, while Mycroft leaned back against it. Sherlock draped one leg over his brother’s shoulder from behind, and Mycroft clutched the calf to his chest possessively. John looked down at them dotingly, rubbing at Sherlock’s thigh.

“Had some time to think back there?” said Greg to Sherlock, casually. This is where the hard work of a foursome was done - in the post-coital afterglow.

“Yes, Greg,” said Sherlock, thoughtfully.

“Any conclusions?”

He nodded, a little bashfully. “Feelings. Behaviour.”

“Tell us, doll.” Greg’s eyes were curious and encouraging.

They had long-since worked out that Sherlock's reticence could be overcome with a carefully-worded question and answer session. Greg was the natural inquisitor, but never resorted to dirty tricks or dubious means. Though both brothers were habitually unforthcoming about stating or explaining their feelings - once they were able to admit that they had them - they were, in this matter, as in all important ones, willing to be challenged, ever eager to discover and learn. Their own Holmesian telepathy rendered excessive expressions of sentiment unnecessary to each other, but being clever boys, they realised it simply would not do for those they wished to make happy. In any case, all evidence pointed to it being a necessity, and evidence was sacrosanct.

Sherlock squirmed a little but made his confession, clear on the answer since his period of washing-up-induced reflection.

“Boredom. Loneliness. A bit. Missing you.”

“Missing me?”

“Yeah. You. All of us. It was the… The bad one. A bit,” said Sherlock, a little shamefaced.

“Love, it’s not called ‘the bad one’. It’s the normal one. Can you name it for me?”

Greg felt as though he were coaxing a bird to peck seeds from his hand.

“Jealousy. Little bit.”  

“Yeah”, said Greg, kindly. “Remember what we say about it?”

“It thrives in the dark.”

“Clever boy.”

As ever with Sherlock, it was quiet compassion which broke his defences. Emotion rose in his chest, and all his grievances left him in one rant.

“It’s… It’s been so tedious lately! For weeks and weeks! You’ve been at work since the Late Middle Ages, Greg, and not a single case worth getting out of bed for. John’s been off with _him_ doing stupid cooking that I’m no good at _at all_ , even though it’s just _chemistry_ and it should be _easy!_ Or he’s going to the gym - and I know you’re a Dad, John, and you have to do loads of stuff, but I could push a buggy in the park if you asked me! I could pick up Rosie from nursery instead of Mrs H, if it helps. I’m not totally inept! And Mycroft wouldn’t let me help stir or chop anything at all today! _And_ I’ve been on my own doing a stupid experiment that hasn’t yielded any useful results whatsoever, which you wouldn’t even come and look at, Mycie, even though you took the whole day off just to make stupid dinner! I didn’t even get a kiss when _any_ of you came home, and nobody’s been naked in this house, or Mycroft’s, or the flat for about a hundred years! Oh, Greg, I didn’t _want_ to do the washing up, I just wanted to get taken to bed and rogered senseless ‘til Sunday!”

A stunned and horrified silence greeted this outpouring. Then at once they were all over him, spilling apologies with dismayed expressions and reassuring touches.

John seemed particularly distraught and sat up, wrapping his arms round Sherlock's back to tightly embrace him, as though afraid he'd slip away.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock… I didn’t really know you thought… You’re right. I could involve you more. If you like. I just assumed you’d rather not be too horribly needed. For God’s sake, you’re her Daddy too. You know I think that.  All of you. Or Uncles or whatever. Need you all there for different bits. It’s not easy, this.” His voice was tight with emotion.

Sherlock turned to look into his welling eyes, blazing bright with understanding and acceptance. John relaxed his grasp and they held each others’ hands for mutual reassurance. John continued, slightly calmer now:

“And I love spending time with you, we all do, but I love spending it with Myc as well. 'As well', not ‘instead of’. I mean, it’s nice to share enthusiasms, show off for each other. You all come and watch me play rugby, even though you think it’s the campest thing since tinsel. We go to Lestrade’s bloody awful darts tournaments. We love it when you play your violin for us - gives us all the raging horn, frankly. The stove is…just Myc’s violin, really, isn’t it? His gift to humanity.”

“That, and blowjobs,” said Sherlock, giggling, breaking the mood to everyone's relief. Mycroft coughed, abashedly, hoping to move the conversation on.

“Dearest, sometimes we don’t know whether we should disturb you. It doesn’t always go down well. It can be a fine line between suffocating you and being demonstrative. I admit to being the last man in Britain who can speak with authority on demonstrating sentiment… But I should have come to look at your experiment today. That was neglectful. I’m afraid I got rather caught up in the nightmare of mass catering. Won’t happen again, little brother mine. I always have time for evidence-based scientific evaluation. Always time for you.”

He smiled up at this brother with endearing awkwardness. Sherlock leaned down to stroke his cheek and give him a heartfelt kiss. Apology accepted.

Greg chimed in to make his own statement, “Yeah," he sighed, "and I hear what you’re saying about work. God knows I don’t enjoy the hours at my age. I’ll have a look at it, OK? See what I can do. We all will. Maybe we’ve taken our eye off the ball a bit lately. And as for not kissing you hello, yeah, bang to rights. I was in a rotten mood like a bear with a sore head, and I'm sorry, darl, I'm a very stupid wanker and I'll make it up to you all night. Tough shit this modern multi-relationship fandango, innit? That’s why we need you - to kick up a fuss. We’ll do better. Promise, love.”

“Yep, course we will,” said John, kissing Sherlock's shoulder blade. “No-one’s bloody going anywhere for the next two days, we’re staying in bed all bloody weekend, rogering each other senseless ‘til Sunday, all right?”

“Yes,” breathed Sherlock, feeling the final cares of the day leave his body. “Very yes.”

Greg got up and planted a firm kiss on his mouth, then on John and Mycroft in turn.

“Right, into the bath with you, sticky boy. Bit crusty now actually… That sore arse of yours is going to sting in the hot water.”

Sherlock hurrumphed with theatrical zeal. “You were horrid!”

“I think I was quite restrained.”

“I don’t mind the ginger up the bum or even the beating, it’s the attempted wit I always find so painful!” commented Sherlock, quite unnecessarily.

“Hardly a beating,” corrected Greg.

“Fearsome spoon-walloping, more like,” said John, helpfully.

“Thoroughly well-deserved hiding,” contributed Mycroft.

“Enough about my arse, unless someone’s planning on fucking it later,” said Sherlock.

“Hmm,” said John, “We’ll want protection if we’re going in there later, believe me, that ginger hangs around…”

“Oh, I dunno,” said Greg. “Might be stimulating. But on second thoughts, let’s be sure to wash him out thoroughly. Right, bugger off then. Mycie, be a love and get the bath going. Showers for the rest of us, you know how Prince Charming likes to sit and soak.”

“Yes, yes. Rubber ducks off the starboard bow,” sighed Mycroft, groaning as he got to his feet. “Too old to be sitting naked on a floor in Lambeth,” he grumbled to himself as he left the room.

John nudged and Sherlock jumped up off his lap, then wished he hadn’t, as the copious amount of spunk congealing on his body began to slop and drool down him.

“Urgh, it’s all cold!” he wailed, and ran off to join his brother. “Urgh!” they heard again from the hallway. “I forgot it was in my hair!”

John tutted and leaned in to give Greg a huge, appreciative snog and a grope of the bum. “Well done, love,” he said, smiling. Then he walked away, wiggling his smooth, pale bottom and giving Greg interesting ideas for their forthcoming dirty weekender. Along the way John caught sight of the little pink knickers discarded on the floor. He coughed self-consciously, scooped them up and took them with him without looking back to catch Greg's piss-taking grin.

Greg chuckled as he set the displaced cushions back to their rightful places, avoiding the traces of sex on the furniture. He surveyed the well-fucked living room with an appraising eye. He put the lube back in its drawer, kicked the DVDs to one side, took one last revolted look at the soggy sofa, and decided now was not the time to do housework. He turned the lights off, and passed across the room to the kitchen. All the clean plates, bowls, dishes, pots and pans were piled neatly, sparkling as good as new. Fantastic. Except… What was...? For fuck's sake.

Slap-bang in the middle of the worktop was a single unwashed plate, encrusted and congealing. A rebel flag. A very unsubtle message of beautiful defiance. ‘Nice try, Lestrade. Almost, but not quite,’ it said.

He smiled broadly. Obedience is one thing, he reflected. But it pays to keep things interesting. He stalked off to join his beloved blokes in the bathroom, plotting to extract revenge in the bedroom. All weekend.

Gregory Lestrade was not a man easily thrown off a case.

****

Epilogue by Text:

_‘Sir – I trust the outcome was a satisfactory one. Washing up done? B.B learned his lesson? A.’_

_‘Dear A – a triumph. Thank you for procuring the items as per instruction. I can always sense a storm coming. Reimbursement to follow. See you Monday. Will be late in. M.’_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that. Let me know how it was for you. Sequel (ish) is 'Best Days of Your Life'

**Author's Note:**

> Do comment if you feel so inclined. :)


End file.
